You're Never Ready for a Zombie Apocalypse (Guardians of the Apocalypse Book 1)

by Jeff Thomson

  “I’m well aware,” Gus said. “And still don’t see why we don’t get the Hell out now.”

  They made their way down the starboard ladder to the tiny medical office, where Marcie, John’s (long suffering) wife busied herself stocking the cabinets with a variety of illegal narcotics, such as morphine. Having a shit pot of money made “legal” a relative term.

  “Precisely because we don’t know how long it’s going to be,” John replied, exasperated. He dropped the First Aid behemoth on the desk with a thunk, then leaned in and kissed his wife on the cheek. “How many times do we have to go through this? No point in falling back on our stores until there’s no choice.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d say the hundred or so cases of infected people and the three times as many deaths and injuries tell me we absolutely have to,” Gus insisted. The figures were exaggerated, but it hardly mattered.

  “As long as we’re careful, no we don’t,” John said, turning to Gus and pointing toward the small refrigerator, into which Marcie placed a tray of opiates. “Because, my friend, in case you’ve forgotten, we have vaccine.”

  6

  Christopher Floyd glanced at the e-mail and chuckled. Well, well, he thought. Serves those greedy bastards right.

  He was a tall man, thin, with pale skin and the hint of dark circles under his eyes. His brown hair was short and not quite combed. His clothes were neat, however: white lab coat over a dark blue collared shirt and black slacks. He fingered the keyboard on his laptop and typed an uncharacteristic “Thank you,” on the return e-mail. “No,” he added, and hit send.

  He chuckled again.

  The original e-mail read: CDC says a secondary booster is required: 31 millicuries. Optimum time period is three weeks after initial booster, but must be given within 45 days. Eighteen percent infection rate even after primary and initial booster. Need gel powder. Do you have any left?

  He looked at the boxes stacked next to his desk. Three hundred pounds of polyacrylamide gel powder were in them. He’d lied to the “friend” who sent the e-mail. He felt no remorse. No such thing as friends in a zombie apocalypse.

  He deleted the e-mail and sat in his empty classroom, thinking. He often did this, though probably shouldn’t, since thinking was what landed him at Oregon State - Astoria . Well, thinking, and then doing. The doing was what got him in trouble.

  It could have been worse. He could have gone to jail, though very few people knew what he’d done - what he’d tried to do. The Dean at Stanford wanted to avoid a scandal, so nothing came of it, but now he was stuck in the hinterland of wannabe bohemian granola chicks, purveyors of modern herbology and chemistry, white guys in dred-locks, and shitkicking former loggers, unemployed, thanks to liberal protests about clear cutting. It wasn’t exactly Purgatory, but it was pretty damned close.

  He’d been a PHD candidate, once upon a time. He’d been a lot of things, once upon a time, including what many would consider a “Mad Scientist.” His PHD in Microbiology was...cut short..., but on top of it, he held Master’s Degrees in Biochemistry, Microbiology, Neurobiology, Psychopathology, and Psychopharmacology, as well as Bachelors Degrees in Chemistry, Biology, Psychology, and Art History. The last had come about because of the one and only time he had allowed himself to dally with a female. It had not ended well, and he had loathed Art History, but he still ended up with the piece of paper. And so (Art History not withstanding) he had earned the distinction of Mad Scientist.

  He liked the moniker, although most people meant it as a pejorative. Most people were morons, in his estimation. Judging by IQ points, this was demonstrably true. His Stanford-Binet score was one-seventy-nine, beyond the top of the scale, with ninety to one-hundred-nine being average. He’d always been smart, and (to him, anyway) the rest of the huddled masses squatted just above the level of drooling idiocy. Didn’t make them bad people, per se, but it meant he usually had to dumb things down for the dullards so they’d understand what were simple concepts.

  The classroom door opened and three of those dullards entered. He could remember one of their names - the second through the door, a young man named Thomasine. Not a bad mind - not a particularly good one, either. In front and behind him were a young black man, and a young white woman. Their faces were familiar, since they both attended his Bio 343 Seminar. He hadn’t cared to learn their names, and only knew Thomasine’s because it was so unusual.

  “Got a minute, Professor?” The young man asked.

  “A minute,” Floyd replied.

  They took seats at three of the desks, the other two looking to Thomasine. He cleared his throat. “Uh, we’d like...”

  “Let me guess,” Floyd interrupted. “You’re not here to ask about the homework.” He hadn’t assigned any. What would have been the point?

  “No, sir,” the boy replied. “It’s about the virus.”

  “Of course it is,” Floyd said, and of course it was. Pomona was the only topic on anyone’s lips these days.

  “Could you...”

  He waved the question off. “It’s actually two viruses: a variation on the common cold rhinovirus, and a rhabodovirus, similar to rabies. The first, causes an upper respiratory infection, the second, destroys the brain.”

  When word of the virus first leaked out, twenty-four hours before the official announcement by the CDC, while the rest of the world lay blissful in its ignorance, most of the major organizations (First World governments, too big to fail banks, technological corporations, and - of course - pharmaceutical companies) wasted no time preparing for what even then seemed the worst case scenario. Oh, they soft-soaped it a bit, saying there was always a chance to stop the outbreak from turning into a global-killing pandemic, but in their heart of hearts, they knew the world’s goose was cooked. And so steps were taken, all the while maintaining the facade of international cooperation.

  One of those steps, taken by a large tech company in the Pacific Northwest (which shall forever remain nameless) was to hire every microbiologist and biochemist they could lay their hands on - at least all those known to have a certain moral and/or ethical flexibility. And so they called on one Associate Professor Christopher Floyd, and dragged him neither kicking, nor screaming, nor protesting even a little bit, out of the obscurity of the Pacific Northwest hinterland.

  Not exactly. He hadn’t left Astoria, hadn’t left the college, but they had set him up with a lab (in a disused warehouse near the City Wharf), with all the bells and whistles and equipment he wanted, and they paid him in gold - half up front, half upon delivery of the vaccine. The moment he delivered the last of it, they seized all his equipment, all his supplies, and unceremoniously dumped him out onto the street. They neglected to make the final gold payment.

  And now, they didn’t know about the Secondary Booster - or if they did, it was too goddamned late. Served the fuckers right.

  Treating the common cold portion of the outbreak was child’s play, and rather beside the point. It became evident from the start, the cold bug was merely the pathfinder for the neurological pathogen, paving the way for it through the respiratory infection it caused. The coughing and inflammation led to bleeding of the lungs, which gave the blood-bourne neurological pathogen a way in. And that sucker was a right evil bastard.

  It cooked the human brain in such a way that all higher function was not just impaired, but eliminated - permanently. Even if (and it was one gigantic motherfucker of an if) they found a way to stop the spread of the virus, those inflicted with it were beyond hope or help, because there was no cure.

  It didn’t just cook the brain; it played with it first, causing delusional behavior, which took many forms. The most common of those was a lovely little mind fuck called Delusional Parasitosis. The high fever would cause the sensation known as “prickly heat,” which felt like tiny insects crawling on the skin. The cooking brain would then interpret this sensation as actual bugs crawling all over the delusional victim, causing them to rip off their clothing in an effort to rid themselves of the
imaginary infestation. There were other delusions, ranging from simple memory loss, through dementia, and right to extreme paranoia, but the bug thing was by far the one most manifested.

  That, in and of itself, would have been bad enough, twisted enough, but the neurological pathogen didn’t stop there. While it was destroying the frontal lobe, it also jacked up the lizard brain - the prehistoric remnant of humanity’s savage progenitors. In short, in turned them into vicious, violent, insane animals with no morality, no remorse, and no compunction against killing and eating (if no other food source were available) fellow humans. Mad Scientist though Christopher Floyd happily was, even he thought that was some fucked up shit.

  “We know,” the woman said, with the insipid know-it-all superiority of pampered youth. “But how did it happen?”

  “And what kind of asshole would use it to infect kids?” the black man said.

  “A genius,” Floyd replied.

  “What?” the young woman sputtered with righteous indignation.

  “Spare me the outrage,” Floyd said, cutting her off.

  “You admire the asshole,” the black man said.

  “Consider the logic,” Floyd said, dreading the slow process of making these thick-headed students understand. “Whoever did this either did it for fun, or by design. The complex nature of the viruses, the fact they were genetically engineered, and the logistics of disseminating them throughout the world, all indicate design. Design indicates both a goal, and a plan to achieve that goal.” He paused to let the ideas sink in.

  They (FBI, CIA, DHS - pick your Alphabet Agency) traced the source of the outbreak at Pomona Junior High to bulk food cans - the kind distributed to all large organizations, such as the military, prisons, and, yes, the public school system. They found traces of both the cold and so-called zombie viruses inside, as well as outside the cans. They traced those cans to Darwin Industries, owned by one Mr. Duncan Darwin, who seemed to have disappeared. The fact the man also owned Darwin Genetics, and Darwin Pharmaceuticals, pretty much sealed the deal. Not that it did any good. The entire world was still fucked.

  “If Pomona was the one and only outbreak, the one and only place the virus appeared, then this would have been a simple act of terrorism. Logic, therefore, dictates the goal must have been to destroy human civilization.” He looked at their faces. Thomasine showed a glimmer of understanding, the girl continued her moral outrage, and the young black man just looked pissed. None of them spoke.

  “There are almost seven billion humans on this planet. Each and every one has their own agenda, each and every one has their own dreams, their own likes and dislikes, their own beliefs. The need to procreate is one of the very few things we all have in common.” He paused again to let them digest, then dropped the logic bomb. “What vector could be more efficient than children?”

  Everyone involved knew that to slow, let alone stand a chance of stopping the spread, would mean vaccination. Thanks to the anti-vaccine idiocy of the Tea Party, however, the “V” Word was not easily bandied about. Coupled with the fact the only readily available source of antibodies was live, infected human beings (which meant committing murder), and suddenly millions of short-sided, misinformed, ignorant Americans were protesting the one and only thing that could stop the pandemic.

  Luckily, Floyd had acquired (through mutual acquaintance) a source at the Portland Morgue, where they had been taking bodies from the Treatment Centers (a Devil’s Euphemism, if ever there was one) and incinerating them. The “source,” would intercept a chosen few before sending them to the crematorium - for a fee, thus cutting Floyd’s profit margin. At least he hadn’t needed to do any actual killing. As long as the...subject...had been dead less than twelve hours and had not been subjected to extremes of heat or cold, the virus bodies remained viable.

  The problem then became producing enough vaccine in a short enough time frame before it was too late. As such, the growth or cloning methods of attenuation were out of the question. The process took months, and even the rosiest scenarios only gave the world weeks. This meant using the modernized version of the Pasteur Method: extracting viable virus bodies from a living (more or less) host, passing them through a separation medium, treating them with the proper dose of radiation, adding de-ionized water in the proper amount, and then injecting it into the waiting Corporate arms. This brought up a logistical problem.

  He looked at the stacked boxes again. Chance favors the prepared mind. The moment he’d heard of the virus and the vaccine, he’d placed an order for as much gel powder as he could get his hands on. The tech firm had supplied him with enough to create the primary dose and booster for all their chosen recipients, but Floyd thought long term, even then, and the powder was the one consumable ingredient not available at almost any drug store.

  His mind had always been quick, his memory, photographic. The latter, enabled him to obtain his nine degrees before his twenty-sixth birthday. The former, allowed him to see just how fucked the human race was going to be. He saw the progression as if some cosmic professor charted it out on a white board: announcement, disbelief, anger, finger-pointing, denial, protest, depleted resources, panic, doom, aftermath. His particular interest had been in numbers seven and ten: depleted resources, and aftermath.

  He knew there would be howls of protest over the source of the antibodies, which would slow public production (though not the clandestine production for the corporations, who wouldn’t care). This slowed production would lead to wider spread of the virus, which would, in turn, lead to panic when the morons realized they were doomed. This panic would cause a run on the market for the consumable products necessary to create the vaccine, which would have already been depleted by those who had the wherewithal and moral ambivalence to hire people like Floyd, and so he had planned ahead.

  He looked at the stacked boxes again, thought of their contents and smiled. He hadn’t paid for it himself. Polyacrylamide gel powder was expensive stuff. Luckily, the College had a credit card. Of course, things would go badly if they received the bill before he managed to get away with the fruits of his foresight, but plans were already laid to make his escape this very night. Christopher Floyd planned ahead.

  “So what do we do?” Thomasine asked.

  “Run,” Floyd replied.

  “Just like that?” The young woman asked. “Drop everything and run?” She and her sanctimonious attitude were getting on his nerves.

  “Just like that,” Floyd repeated, then thought better of it. “Before you run, find a cabin up in the mountains, away from any populated areas. Bring as much food and water as you can, then barricade yourself inside.”

  “Then what?” Thomasine asked.

  “Wait.”

  “Till Hell freezes over?” The black man said.

  “Till the plague is over,” Floyd replied. “Till the zombies die out.”

  “And when will that be?” The young woman asked, the derision evident in her voice. He wanted to slap the little bitch.

  “How the Hell should I know?” He snapped. He’d had enough. “I’m busy,” he added, pointing toward the door. “Feel free to let it smack you in the ass.”

  The woman bolted to her feet, working herself toward what Floyd felt sure would be a righteous retort, but Thomasine grabbed her arm, and pulled her toward the exit. He, at least, seemed to have enough active brain cells to grasp the situation. He might survive, with a little skill and a lot of luck. The other two wouldn’t last a week. They left without another word.

  Professor Christopher Floyd was okay with that. He was also okay with the knowledge that the selfish corporate bastards would just about now be finding out they hadn’t made enough vaccine. They needed a secondary booster, which needed to be filtered through the separation medium of polyacrylamide gel, which was now in severely short supply. He looked at the boxes and started to laugh. He was sitting on a gold mine.

  7

  “It’s about time you got here, Jones,” LT Rick (the Dick) Medavoy said in hi
s slightly nasal and always annoying voice as Jonesy entered the Wardroom. He’d just gotten word the XO wanted him at this meeting about five minutes ago. He’d been back on the Quarterdeck supervising more supply loading - something he’d been doing all damned day long - and the XO knew it.

  “Sorry,” he said, not meaning it, then added “sir,” as a sort of afterthought. In his opinion, LT Medavoy, their Executive Officer, was an asshat fucktard with delusions of grandeur, though this was just his opinion. Others had expressed worse opinions, but since Jonesy was a senior petty officer, he couldn’t agree or disagree - officially. Didn’t stop him from thinking it, though.

  Gathered around the long, rectangular dining table in the Wardroom were the XO, the Engineer, CWO4 Chuck Kincade, the Bosun, CWO2 Eric Larson, the Comms Officer, LTJG Craig Bloominfeld, the Supply Chief, SKC Duane Robinson, and, sitting next to the only open chair, ENS. Molly Gordon. Jonesy did not see ENS. Mark Ryan, his OPS Officer, but then, he hadn’t expected to. The kid (he looked younger than the eighteen year-old boots straight from Cape May) had flown out on leave just last night.

  “Well hurry up and sit down,” the XO snapped. “Ensign Ryan won’t be with us.”

  “Is it true his plane went down?” Bloominfeld asked. The two were close friends.

  Medavoy hesitated for the briefest of moments, as if checking to see if he had any actual humanity inside of him, then, having found none, said: “That’s the word we got,” and flapped his hand as if waving away a gnat. “Let’s get this meeting started.”

  He pointed to Molly and said: “Introduce yourself.”

  “Molly Gordon,” she replied, in what Jonesy thought was a small voice. He knew she had to be nervous as Hell.